


What Home Feels Like

by musicalghost



Category: Homestuck
Genre: But Mostly Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, apparently thats not a common tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicalghost/pseuds/musicalghost
Summary: Aradia has a panic attack, gets comforted by Dave.
Relationships: Aradia Megido/Dave Strider
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	What Home Feels Like

**Author's Note:**

> Im so. tired its 4:47 am holy shit. this is my first fic be nice

For once it’s you freaking out. The ticking, which so often grounds and comforts you, has grown to a loud, too-fast, clicking in your ears. Dave left to get… something, just now(2 minutes, 34 seconds ago), but already- Your hands squeeze the unfeeling curve of your horns to avoid scratching at your arms. T1ck T0ck, T1ck T0ck, T1ck- you get lost in the sound, the tiles of the bathroom beneath your feet swimming, and you’re glad you’re sitting down but would it really matter? Would it really make a differe- T1ck T0ck T1ck T0ck T1ck T0ck, you sway to the sound. T1ck T0ck T1ck T0ck T1c-

Dave walks back into your frame of vision, already muttering to you, to himself, “‘radia, hey sorry I know I took a while-“ (6 minutes, 5 seconds) “I just wanted to brings you something more than just water, I mean that shits some sweet elixir-“ he places a plate full of something you can’t see next to the sink. “could replace that am- abros? ambrosia shit, ’s stuff of th’ god’s, I mean like us, you know drinkin’ water all the time” (4:53 AM. Not that it matters.) “might as well be drink of the god’s, I mean that shit’s everywhere-“ He’s holding out a glass of water but you can’t let go of your horns. “is it a drink of the god’s if its universal or- Ah, fuck, ‘radia. Aradia.” Oh. You’re shaking.

“Hey, hey,” He sits cross-legged in front of you, “hey. ‘radia look at me.” You keep looking at his shirt. “‘radia.” You know if it wasn’t the middle of the night (4:56 AM) and he had his sunglasses on, this would be when he’d push them up into his curls. “Babe, look at me.” You take a sharp breath in and hold it as you look up at him, his eyes, his white eyelashes, his patchy freckles.

“Can I touch your face?” You shake shake shake your head. “Your arms?” You give a tight nod and focus on the way the thickness of his eyebrows trail off. You jump at the touch of his hand to your shoulder, but as his thumb rubs small circles into your skin, you lean into it, a shaky chirr pushing past the lump in your throat. He hums quietly and gives your arm a small squeeze. “Can we try breathing now?” You nod, and let go of your horns, stretching your fingers and flexing your claws. You place your palms on the cold tiles.

“In 5, hold 3, out 7, okay?” If only it wasn’t so easy to count. He sucks in a breath, loud, so you can hear it and you try to follow his lead, succeeding only after three hiccups, with his thumb rubbing steady circles. Breathe in. Hold. Your eyes lock on the dip of skin on his upper lip, the scar long healed. Breathe out. His tight curls against his forehead. You remember when you met him, his head bobbing to the seconds you could hear. Breathe in. The faint indent of his skin stuck long after he takes his binder off, you want to press the tension out of his shoulders, later. Hold. One, Two, Three. Breathe out. The homemade piercings lining his ears, you still remember his yelp and your unneeded worry. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

You focus on him, on every beloved bit of him, until your breath is shakily steady, until you lean forward to press your forehead to his. You stay like that for three soft seconds, before he pulls back just a bit, to hold up the glass of water. You stare at it, three, four, five, before laughing hoarsely and taking the glass, downing half of it in one. You let out a sigh.

You look up to see him leaning towards you, a cautious expression on his face. “Can I…?” You hum and cup his cheek before pulling him in for a hug, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, careful with the sharp tips of your horns. He smells like home. You stay there for a while (2 minutes 36 seconds), holding each other close. “What was it this time?” he whispers. You pause (2 seconds).

You had a hard time talking about this when it started. It’s hard being a time player, and nobody understands. Well. “It was Time again.” Your voice is softer than you thought it’d be. “I thought about the End and Time became loud in my ears and-“ You feel your face tense, your ears press down unhappily. “I was scared. I thought I’d lost the timeline. I thought I’d lost.” You pause. You haven’t talked with Dave about this yet. About losing… loved ones. Your eyes meet his again and his face is wrought with emotions you don’t entirely recognize. Empathy, understanding… relief? He looks like he is about to cry.

“Fuck, I. ‘radia.” He presses his forehead to yours again, giving you a shaky smile. “I know how it feels. It’s. Okay. We’re okay. We’re here, together, n we’re okay.” You chuckle at hearing what you so often say to him repeated back to you. You rest your cheek on his and rub circles on his shoulder as you listen to him murmur and stumble over how “we” is a thing now, how he got you a sandwich and it was kind of a pain to make as fast as possible, he got ham all over the counter, you don’t know how he managed that. You smile at the familiar sound of his voice and wrap your arms around him to give him a gentle squeeze.

Later, he’ll take the plate from next to the sink and encourage you to eat. You’ll cry again trying to get yourself to chew, and he’ll pretend to take a few weak bites at the sandwich to make you laugh. The two of you, still tangled in a hug, will stumble back into your bed, faintly warm from before you left, and for once, Dave will be the big spoon, despite him reaching below your shoulder in height. You’ll end up falling asleep to the time of his breaths, the warmth and weight of his arm across your waist grounding you, your back warm from his radiating heat. You’ll wake up to him half draped over you and find you don’t mind one bit.

But for now, you’ll hold on to this beautiful boy, and listen as he mutters sweet and rambling confessions of small and medium size, as you remember and treasure each one. Time still ticks by, not loud and obtrusive, but observed, by a gangly, shade-wearing teen and a soft, time-worn troll, leaning into each other’s warmth.

**Author's Note:**

> yes i am projecting, what about it?


End file.
